


Afterlife

by jeffgoldblumvevo



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 06:14:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16969233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeffgoldblumvevo/pseuds/jeffgoldblumvevo
Summary: Leigh and Steve name their daughter Eleanore, with an 'e' on the end which is more old-fashioned, they say. Eleanore Olivia Crain. Lots of dead people in that name; Luke's not a fan. Not that anyone asked his opinion.





	Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbelles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbelles/gifts).



Luke can usually tell right away if a therapist is worth the time and money, and not just because he's been to so many. Kid shrinks, rehab shrinks, trauma shrinks, family shrinks. He used to joke with Nellie that if they had trading cards, like baseball players, he'd have an entire set to leave to her in his will. She never really found that very funny. 

It's only about as useful as you want it to be, is the thing, and Luke never wanted it to be useful. The difference between then and now, before and after, is that now he _does_ want it to be useful, and so it is up to a certain point, and that point is the part of the conversation where they tell him he's holding something back about his family's deaths and they can't be useful to him if he's not honest about what he needs out of the sessions. And so Luke usually says something like, mumble mumble, I miss my sister, I regret things about my father, mumble mumble, and then goes shopping for a new one. 

He had a favorite, one he saw for a few months in high school before he got into the dangerous shit, a long-haired school counselor who would let Luke use his appointment times to take naps.

"You can't sleep at home? Sleep here," he'd say with a shrug. Luke called him by his first name, which was Bill. He remembers that only because it seemed like an out-of-place, old fashioned name for a young guy with a Grateful Dead tattoo on his shoulder. "I mean sure, I'd prefer if we talked instead, but I get paid either way, so knock yourself out. Literally speaking."

Luke slept better there than he's ever slept anywhere else, Nellie and Arthur's couch included. After a few weeks he tried talking, and since Bill treated everything like it was a joke Luke could be more honest. He thought ghosts were a metaphor, and if he thought Luke was weirdly intent about it, he never called him out. He's never managed to find that delicate balance with anyone else. 

"They should make a dating app for shrinks," Steve gently teases. A feature of the softer, sadder Stevie: he teases. "Swipe left or right. One session stands. An endless supply, no commitment."

"Funny," says Luke, "funnier if there wasn't really an app like that."

"No shit, really?"

"Like four or five of them. You can like, text with one anytime you want. You gotta pay for most of 'em, but…" Luke trails off, shrugging awkwardly. He always feels kind of exposed, weird, talking to Steve about anything real. Like he's doing something he shouldn't, talking to someone he's not allowed to talk to. "There's a bunch of them that are more like, crisis helplines. Those are usually free - I've tried a couple."

"Was it useful?" Steve frowns thoughtfully, like he's doing an interview. "I mean, is the experience comparable to an in-person meeting? I can't imagine there's room for much...depth, when you're just texting with someone."

Luke shrugs again, pushing a meatball around his plate with his fork. "Some people can't handle it in person."

"Huh," Steve says, and drinks his orange juice. How absurd - orange juice at an Italian restaurant. But it was all they had that wasn't either coffee, water, or wine, and Steve still doesn't believe Luke when he says it doesn't bother him to be around alcohol. None of his siblings believe him about that. They probably never will. 

"So Vancouver, huh," Luke says, desperate to change the subject. "You ever been there before?"

"Once, on a long layover," Steve says. He's the type of person who has long layovers. "I spent the night downtown, had a little bit of time to sightsee in the morning. But it was just a taste of it - I was only there a few hours."

"A whole week, you should have plenty of time to see everything."

"Maybe. I'll be working." 

Luke rests his chin in his hand, watching Stevie cut his lasagna into thin, drippled-red strips. "Is this the lady who sees her ex-husband, or the lady who thinks she talks to God?"

"Neither, actually." Steve's voice takes on the tone it always does when he talks about his "clients": sort of dry, faintly condescending. Luke has never understood why he writes about ghosts so much when he can't stand the people who see them. "This guy emailed me...it's a last minute trip. He thinks…" Steve grimaces, like he's about to say something awkward. "Well, he thinks his house is haunted."

Luke nods. Of course he does. 

"He says he has footage. He sent me some - it seems...interesting." Steve pauses to gulp his orange juice. "His daughter believes it, and a few of his friends. The only thing is...they tore it down. The house, I mean - it was damaged in a flood, and the city condemned it."

If only they'd been so lucky, Luke thinks. "So...a dead end?"

"Not necessarily. It's his story that I want." Steve pauses, a brief flash of disgust rolling across his face. "I mean - that's what the book is. A collection of stories."

"Have you ever thought about...I don't know. Writing for like, a newspaper or something?" Luke keeps his eyes on his plate, too nervous to look up. "I could see you doing those long articles in like, the New Yorker or whatever. You know, the essay things about interesting people and weird political stuff...what's the word - "

"Long reads," Steve says, sounding impressed. "You read the New Yorker?"

"Every rehab on the planet has a library," Luke says sharply, biting down on his hard, flavorless breadstick. 

"Right," Steve says, chagrined. "It's...a possibility. Most of those outlets are...you have to have some measure of fame to be a candidate, realistically speaking, and while I certainly have that, it's not of the...the type that they look for, at least not in publications like you're probably thinking of - "

"They think you're a hack?" Luke asks.

Steve frowns at him. "In a word - yes. Thanks, by the way."

Luke shrugs. "So impress them. Prove them wrong."

Steve laughs dryly, a bitter, frustrated sound, and pushes his plate back slightly. "With all my free time, you mean, in-between road trips for interviews, and Leigh's doctor appointments, and remodeling half my house, and - "

"You know what Dad would say to all that," Luke interrupts. "'So? Figure it out.'"

Steve scowls. "I don't really wanna talk about Dad right now, if you don't mind."

Luke shrugs again. "If I listened to all you guys when you asked me not to bring up Dad, we'd _never_ talk about him, Stevie."

Steve makes a face like he's swallowed something sour, and picks up his stupid champagne flute of orange juice. The only reason they had it back there was for mimosas, Luke suspects. 

"All I'm saying is," Luke says, placing his fork carefully on the napkin next to his plate, "if you hate what you're writing about, then don't write about it. That's all."

"It's not that simple," Steve says, his shoulders pulling back stubbornly. 

"I think maybe it is," Luke says. "I just want you to be happy, Steve, that's all. But you have to give yourself permission to be. That's the first step."

" _You're_ giving _me_ advice on how to be happy?" Steve asks incredulously. The sentence drops like a heavy stone in a pond, splashing dirty water into both of their faces. Luke takes a deep breath, looks over Steve's shoulder, focuses on the pictures on the wall. _One, two, three,_ he thinks. _My brother thinks he's better than me._

"Sorry," Steve says, clearing his throat. "That was unfair."

_Four, five, six, I hate these fuckin' breadsticks._ "It's fine."

"No, Luke, honestly, I'm - "

"Stop it," Luke says. Steve shuts his mouth with a snap. "I said it's fine. Let's leave it where it is."

"Okay," Steve says uncertainly, picking up his fork. 

They start eating again, in silence, like a thousand dinners they've eaten before. Luke sees the waitress walking across the dining room, to check in on them or offer them dessert, but she blanches when she makes eye contact and veers away at the last second, stopping instead at the family sitting at the next table over. 

"You're not a hack," Luke says after a second. "That's all I meant."

"Thanks," Steve says, at length. He doesn't believe it, Luke can tell. Nobody ever believes him. 

 

 

 

Before Nellie died he didn't really dream, or if he did, he didn't remember it. Now he dreams about Abigail: thin, mousy Abigail, with the terrible, colonial Quaker haircut, and her smelly party dresses streaked with mud. She always reeked of cleaning solution and milk. They met on the edge of the forest, when Luke was running away from Theo who'd been yelling at him for something, who knows what except for it was probably stupid, and then there she was: crouching beneath the Y-bend of a partially collapsed Oak tree, her pale white face outlined on a backdrop of green and black. 

Who would she be, if she were an adult? A housekeeper like her mother? Probably. What else could a girl like her be suited for? A housewife of some mediocre, unchallenging man. An unkind thought, maybe. Luke's unsure of the ethics of shittalking dead people who were only halfway alive in the first place. 

Leigh and Steve name their daughter Eleanore, with an 'e' on the end which is more old-fashioned, they say. Eleanore Olivia Crain. Lots of dead people in that name; Luke's not a fan. Not that anyone asked his opinion. 

_You be nice,_ Nellie would have said. _They're just trying to honor us._

Eleanor was Mom's grandmother's name. Luke was the first to call her 'Nell,' because he couldn't pronounce 'Ellie.' Dad told him once that he said it at the dinner table in front of everybody and from that moment on, it was settled. 

_Everybody knew that was her name. You said it, so that's what it was. You looked up from your bowl and - and just like that, you changed her name. It was the damndest thing. Your aunt wanted to keep calling her 'Ellie,' and she tried, but your mom wouldn't have it. 'Her name is Nell,' she said. And that was that._

If Luke really could change something by saying it, then all those mantras would have worked a bit better, he's pretty sure. I am thoughtful, I am capable, I am present in all that I do. Luke hated those fuckin' things. When a therapist brings those out, he doesn't even finish the session. 

_You can't force it. You have to just...let it happen._ Would Mom have believed him? About Abigail? Luke is pretty sure that...he never actually told her. Stevie and Dad both thought she was imaginary, but Luke's been wracking his memories for twenty years, and he can't remember a single conversation about Abigail when Mom was in the room. She would've believed him, probably. If she'd heard him say it himself. _It's the in-between part of your head - that's what I used to call it. The part between when you're asleep and you're awake, when you can the world just a bit clearer. The truth isn't so scary there, because you're at peace, and nothing can hurt you - because it's just a dream, see? A dream that's real. That's where it lives, Luke. The power to change yourself lives right there - and you know exactly where to find it._

Where to find it? Where to bury it, more like. Leave it where it is. _Let it rest._ Let it die. That would be his mantra, his real one: _look away, look away._ Don't open the door or your eyes. Leave that girl alone. She's no good for you anyway. 

_One, two, three, four, there's a monster outside my door._ He and Nellie made this up in tenth grade, the rhyming game. She was always much better than he was, but sometimes she'd give him hints, and they'd both pretend he came up with it on his own. He's better at it now. _Four, five, six and seven, only good kids go to heaven._

So depressing. _No, it's fun._ Fun and depressing. Story of Luke's life. 

 

 

 

Shirl doesn't talk to them much anymore. Her kids are older, she and Kevin are busy with the funeral home, she has a lot going on. Theo says it's for the best. She doesn't talk to Shirl much either, these days. 

"Still working?" Theo always asks, like she's checking up on him. Always with that side-eye, like she's expecting the wrong answer. 

"Like in general, or for Hardy?"

"Both. Whatever." 

"Yes, I still work for Hardy." Theo is best handled over the phone, where she can't see his face, and Luke can't see hers. "They actually promoted me. I'm an assistant project manager, which is sort of a fancy way of saying I help with the paperwork and make sure everybody takes their breaks on time."

"Way to go," Theo says, sounding pleased. "Must be easier on you. Physically speaking, I mean. I assume you're not, you know, hammering things, lifting things, et cetera and so on."

"Not really. I mean, sometimes, but it's a lot more desk work now." Luke pauses. "I saw that doctor you referred me to. The muscle guy?"

"Oh yeah?" Something clinks on her end of the line. A drink with ice. "What'd he say?"

"He thinks I have fibromyalgia." 

"Hm. Yeah, that's what I thought he'd say." Theo clinks again. "You can't - I mean, like, pain pills are out. Right? But did he have other options for you - I mean there has to be something, for people in recovery with health issues, right?"

There are options, none of which Luke is interested in. "Pain pills wouldn't work anyway, Theo."

"Luke," Theo chides, and doesn't finish her sentence. Someone's speaking in the background - Trish, maybe. For some reason, Theo and Trish always call family at the same exact time. Sometimes Luke can overhear bits and pieces of Trish's conversations with her uncle, during the long silences. 

"What? You wanna fight about it some more?"

"No," Theo says irritated. "Just - stop being so fucking morbid. That's what I want."

"Sure, I'll get right on that," Luke replies. 

A stony silence. Not that Theo's silences are ever anything else. "Just...acupuncture."

"What?"

"Acupuncture," Theo says, as it if it's just occurred to her. "That helps with pain. I can get you a guy - someone in my PhD program married one, or dated one, or had a kid with one. Something happened with one. Anyway, she's always posting about it on Instagram."

"Is that the thing with the needles?" Luke asks skeptically.

"Oh please, do you have a phobia now?" Theo snorts. Luke pulls the phone away from his face, resting it against his forehead for a long, long second. "...email it to you. But you have to actually try, okay? None of this 'it is what it is, nobody can help' bullshit. It's a _medical_ problem, Luke. It has a medical solution."

"I gotta go, Theo," Luke says. "I have work early."

"Okay," Theo says, nonplussed. "I'm fine, too, I guess. Trish is fine, the dog is fine. We're all fine, thanks for asking."

"Happy birthday," Luke says, and hangs up the phone. Then he turns it off, plugs it into the charger, and gets up to set his alarm clock for the next morning. He's fucking going to bed now. 

_She means well. They all mean well._

"Yeah, sure," Luke says. 

 

 

 

"You say your flare ups only occur at night?" This therapist is named Dr. Fielder, and she's pretty friendly, and not too much of a hard ass. So far, anyway. "But you don't have nightmares."

"I guess you could call them nightmares sometimes. But they're not scary. Nightmares are supposed to be scary, right?" The question is rhetorical. "But mostly they're just dreams. Really vivid, but…I don't feel scared. Just calm."

"Calm and...at peace?" Dr. Fielder asks. "Or calm and something else? Just because you're not in a state of panic doesn't mean they're pleasant dreams."

"I guess it depends." Luke rubs his shoulder, which has been aching all day. It's always either that one, or his right leg, above his ankle, in the meat of his calf muscle. "I guess 'strange' is the right word. Sometimes scary, but mostly it just feels surreal."

"What are they about?"

"My family, mostly." Luke's never sure if people make the connection with his last name. Steve did a bang up job making them infamous, but one advantage of being the black sheep is that he wasn't in the book much at all. "Stuff from when I was a kid, before my mom died."

"We haven't really talked about your mother," says Dr. Fielder. "Are they happy memories? Do you think that's why you dream about them?"

"That's...a complicated question." Luke rubs his neck. "We were happy, yeah. But our circumstances weren't."

"Right." She nods, like she understands. That's one thing Luke likes about her - she always makes him feel like she's really empathizing, like personally, even when he knows she isn't. "Even the most blissfully happy families still have problems. And it's stressful to live in the world, sometimes. There are always conflicts, problems...painful things to work through."

"I don't remember much about her," Luke says. "My mom. I was only five when she died."

"Of course you still miss her, though."

"Of course." Mom, with her long, long hair and those beautiful, delicate shawls. Dad kept all her clothes locked up in a storage unit for years, before Nellie finally convinced him to let them go. Luke wasn't there when they went through it, but Nellie was, and so he knows what it smelled like anyway, inside all those boxes: like she was standing right behind them, watching as they ran their hands over her things, her perfume still clinging to the fabric beneath the must and rot. Luke can smell it now, if he concentrates. The reek of Dad's work clothes, that they could still smell from halfway across the house, even when he stuffed them into a hamper or a plastic garbage bag. Nellie's fingerpaints, the cherry soda Stevie drank constantly. Theo's feet on the floor, thumping above their heads as she danced along to her videos. 

"Would you like to tell me about her?" Dr. Fielder looks a bit like Shirley, around her eyes. Kind of tight, all the time, like she's always got a stress headache. 

Luke just shrugs. 

"What about your dreams, then? What do you dream about, Luke?"

"It doesn't matter." Luke laughs. "Are you a Freudian, Dr. Fielder?"

She laughs, her lips pulling tightly against her teeth. "No good counselor would admit it if they were. And you've seen a lot of counselors, haven't you, Luke?"

"A few."

"Now, that's just not true." Dr. Fielder leans forward, the shadow from the window blinds cutting her face into geometric pieces. "I think you've seen a lot of people like me, and I think it's made you jaded. You want to get better, but you're already so familiar with the process that you don't think you'll ever find the right one that will really help you."

Luke blinks at her stupidly. Something bites at the flesh of his shoulder - a sharp pain - invisible teeth, sinking in deep. 

"But I respect that you're still trying. You've always tried so hard, right? Tried to talk loud enough, say the right things, so they'd believe you. But nobody can keep that up forever, in the face of so much doubt. You shouldn't feel bad for faltering. We're only human, and humans are fragile. Our bodies are just skin and bone and blood, strung together by an evolutionary fluke. Do you think the first man who ever lived, the _very_ first one who climbed out of the ocean and opened his eyes - do you think he knew what he was? Does any creature know what it is, when it's first been created? Or do we crawl through our lives with our eyes closed, only because it doesn't occur to us to open them?"

Luke slaps at his shoulder, hissing. The worst part of the pain is that it feels like something attacking him, but it isn't something he can fight. Something tearing at his skin with vengeful teeth that he can't see to fight back against. 

"Are you tired of not being believed? It's okay to be tired. It's okay to give yourself a break every once in awhile." Luke looks back over at Dr. Fielder, whose chair seems both very close and very far away. "I ask you these questions, and I know you can't answer them. What did you see? Who killed them? It's alright - that's all I want to say. Sometimes questions don't need answers."

Luke stares at her, then down at his shoulder. There's a bite wound in the flesh of his arm, like a dog has ripped his arm open without him noticing. Blood soaks the grey sweater, which has been ripped to dangling shreds - but - he blinks, and it's gone. He touches his arm and all he feels is his own shirt - unbroken, soft and dry. 

"It's understandable, is what I mean. Half of your family was murdered. Who could be normal after that? Who could possibly go on to live a normal life?"

Luke blinks at her again, shaking the daze. "What?"

"What?" The window blinds are open, suddenly, though Luke didn't see her get up. Her face is open and concerned. "You spaced out for a moment, Luke - are you alright?"

"What?" Luke asks again, looking around. Everything still seems the same. He's awake, he's pretty sure. 

"I was asking you if you wanted to talk about your mother." Dr. Fielder reaches out, resting her hand on his wrist. "Do you need some water, maybe? You look like you're a bit lightheaded."

"I'm fine," Luke tells her, rubbing his shoulder. The pain is still there, of course. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Over her shoulder, there's a lamp with a scarf draped over its shade that wasn't there before. Luke stares at it through furrowed brows, watching as it disappears in the space between one blink, one breath. 

"Uh yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "What were we talking about again?"

 

 

 

Theo calls three or four times over the next week; he doesn't pick any of them up. Luke checks his voicemail on the bus home on a cold Friday night, tired and dazed, watching the city pass through the windows in flashes of neon light. 

_Hey, Luke. I just wanted to say, uh...I think I probably pissed you off the other day, maybe. It has been pointed out to me that I can be a little insensitive sometimes. Right - I'm sure you're really surprised._

Luke laughs along with her, shaking his head. Fuckin' Theo.

_Anyway, I didn't mean to. My mouth gets away from me sometimes. I just, uh - I'm trying okay? I'm trying. I know you are too._ A long, heavy pause. _I know what you're thinking now - 'how does she apologize without actually apologizing?' But fuck you, you haven't even listened to the whole thing yet. I'm sorry. Wow! Look at me go._

Luke laughs again, rubbing his face with his hand. 

_Anyway, call me back. Trish wants to talk to you too, she finished that nerdy book you gave her._ Another pause. _Love you, bro._

Luke clutches his phone in one hand, hitching his knees up against the seat in front of him. Laying his forehead on his arms, he can almost pretend he's not there. That he's somewhere else entirely, a place he's never seen before. A treehouse in the middle of the forest, with warm sunlight on every side. 

_Five, six, seven, eight, don't let the monsters make you hate._ That one was Nellie's, he's pretty sure. It all gets mixed up nowadays, though. 

 

 

 

Jay, Shirley's eldest, texts Luke from time to time about the most random shit. Internet jokes, or whatever. Luke doesn't know how to be an uncle and he'd probably fuck it up if he really tried, so he just responds with laughing emojis and doesn't try to take it any further. 

October 28th is always a hard, bad day. Luke calls off work and sits in his apartment for most of it, thinking about drinking and thinking about not drinking, about how easy it'd be to go out and score, and how shitty he'd feel afterward. Steve calls him six or seven times, and Theo texts him about every hour, religiously. They always want him to come over on the day of, so he can feel shitty in their living room, instead. As if that would make it better, and not completely, terribly worse. 

Luke doesn't read any of their messages, but he reads Jay's. He's turning seventeen this year, and he's been messaging Luke about college. He wants to come out to the East coast, but Shirl doesn't want him to be so far away. Luke can only imagine those fights. 

_you didn't go to college, right?_

Luke texts back: _go to college, Jay._

_no lol i know but for real you didn't go right_

Luke did not go to college, in fact did not even _think_ about going to college, as he was somewhat preoccupied with more destructive goals in the time of his life that college would have been a realistic option. _No. I should have, though._

There's a long gap of time before Jay's reply. _mom wants me to go to the community college first, so i can get all the basic classes done at home. then she says she'll be okay with me moving far away_

Luke sets his phone down on the table and sighs, thinking about the last conversation he'd had with Shirley: an awkward, stilted thing at the hospital waiting room, when Leigh was in labor with Eleanore. The thing is that they all know _why_ Shirley stopped talking to them, and it's not because she's angry. But telling her over and over that all that shit didn't matter anymore didn't seem to work, and nobody had any better ideas. So here they are.

There are a string of texts, when Luke finally remembers to pick his phone back up again. 

_sorry i know it's weird to talk to u about mom, she's just fcked up today about aunt nellie and so everybody's fighting and i can't really talk to my dad about this stuff_  
sorry u must be fcked up too  
u can ignore me. sorry again 

Luke rubs his leg. The rot started down near his ankle, but now it's far up enough that his knee has started giving him problems. He wears a brace at work, but Mike and Tim have started to notice. That's why they gave him the promotion, Luke's pretty sure. Just to get him behind a desk. 

_It's alright. I'm just having a hard time today, too. But you can always text me about whatever, I don't mind._

_i miss her too_ , comes in a few minutes later. Luke's thumb hovers over the 'call' button for a long, long time. 

_Go talk to your mom. Give her a hug,_ he texts.

_ok_

Luke sets the phone down to rub at his leg again. Maybe if Steve calls again, he'll pick up. He's probably feeling pretty shitty, too. And he and Leigh have been having problems again...Luke's probably being a dick, assuming that Steve is calling just to condescend to him. Old habits die hard, and all that.

_They mean well._ Yes, he _knows_ that. Thank you very much. 

 

 

 

One, two, three, four: June, July, August, and September. Luke gets another promotion, and a pay raise. He moves into a bigger apartment, close enough to walk. Dr. Fielder moves back to Oregon to be closer to her aging parents, and he doesn't try to look for a new therapist. At least not at first. She was pretty okay, for the most part - he's not sure he's ready to start all over again. 

Eleanore turns three, and Leigh makes a special dinner. Steve's book comes out, to rave reviews. He's out on tour a lot, and his flight gets cancelled the night before, so he doesn't make it home in time. So Luke eats two helpings, and helps Leigh sing happy birthday, and stays late to help clean. Leigh doesn't look him in the eye once. 

"I thought that specialist Theo found was helping?" Leigh asks, pressing her palm to Luke's shoulder as she brushes past. Eleanore is dead asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a nest of blankets, confetti in her hair. Luke's been close to joining her, his leg's been bothering him so much. It's up to his thigh now, creeping up steadily, flirting with his waist. After that it's the hips, which Luke isn't looking forward to. The one in his shoulder is making a path towards his lungs. His neck aches too, sometimes. Yesterday he woke up and saw his own face in the mirror, gaunt and sallow yellow, and had to stick his head between his legs and breathe deeply until he stopped feeling the spidery crawl of invisible bugs on his cheeks. 

"It comes and goes," Luke says. Leigh joins him on the couch, pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders. "It is what it is."

"I still think you should consider _some_ kind of medication. There has to be a regiment they could put you on, that wouldn't be addictive. _Something._ "

There's nothing that can help Luke. "I'm used to it, Leigh."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have to be." Leigh stares at her daughter, tapping two fingers against her pursed lips. "Thanks for helping. I appreciate it."

"No problem," Luke says. "Steve made the second flight? I think his phone died before he texted me back."

"Yeah. There's a layover in Dallas though, so he's not gonna get in until tomorrow." Leigh folds her hands together. "What about hypnotherapy? I have a friend who swears by it."

Luke laughs out loud. "You think I can get hypnotized out of chronic pain?"

"Maybe. Anything's possible." Leigh bumps his shoulder with her elbow. "This is LA, buddy, we take that shit seriously around here."

Luke thinks about it. Lying on a couch, letting some hippie doctor into his head. He shudders. "Think I'll pass, but thanks."

Leigh is quiet for a moment. "Luke," she says, at some length. She still doesn't look him in the eye, but she turns towards him, reaching out to lay her hand against his arm. "You know that we trust you with Eleanore, right? With her health issues, we can't - it's hard for me to let her out of sight, but - it's not _you_. You know that, right?"

Eleanore is diabetic. Severely so. She's already been hospitalized twice, just in the short three years she's been alive. It's the main thing that she and Steve fight about - how paranoid Leigh gets about her health. She rarely even lets Eleanore out of the house - she's even talking about homeschooling. Luke looks over at the little girl, who looks absolutely nothing like Nellie, and his leg aches. "Yeah, I know that."

"Good." Leigh squeezes his arm once, then lets him go. "I'm gonna make some calls. Uncle Luke needs to live a long time." She reaches out and touches Eleanore's hair gently, smoothing it back from her quiet, little face. "And he deserves to _enjoy_ life. After he's worked so hard for it."

Luke rubs his neck again, which always hurts a little, this late at night. "It really is fine, Leigh. Honestly. I deal with it."

"Well, we love you," Leigh says simply. "So indulge us, why don't you?"

Luke sighs. "Sure," he says. 

Leigh smiles over at Eleanore. "She asked me the other day if I would cut her hair," she confides. "She wants short hair like Dora the Explorer."

Luke swallows the lump in his throat. "Not too short."

"No. Maybe just a few inches. But it would be easier to take care of - she always manages to tangle it up into a rat's nest, no matter what she's doing." Leigh sighs. "Just a cute little bob. I'd have to wait for Steve's opinion of course, but - what do you think?"

Luke can't think of a single thing that would make sense to say. "It'd be cute."

"Wouldn't it?" Leigh's face softens in its gaze, but Luke has to look away from it. Love, in all its forms, is the hungriest emotion he's ever felt, or witnessed. He still doesn't know how to get used to it. 

 

 

 

Sometimes if he has extra time on his walk to work, Luke stops at a coffee shop or a bakery or something and sits at a table, where he can pretend for a second that he's waiting for someone. If he concentrates hard enough, he can sometimes see Nellie rushing across the street, nervously darting across the crosswalk, her hair flying out behind her in a spray of chestnut brown. If he's not careful though, if he lets it go on too long, then she'll get close enough for him to see the maggots dripping from her eye sockets, and the wire keeping her jaw shut, exposed by her rotting flesh. But he's gotten pretty good at cutting it off before she gets that close. And he's used to it. 

Why don't you date someone, people say. Try Tinder or something, reach out to your work friends. Go out for drinks, enjoy yourself. Luke doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. That's always been safer. 

_They're right, and you should admit it,_ Nellie says. _You can't just wait around to die. That's not why you're here. That's not why I saved you._

Did she save him? Sometimes Luke's not sure. Save him for this? To go to work and go home again, clean enough but still dying, bit by bit. One day, the rot will reach his heart, and he'll drop dead in the middle of one of his dreams. A long life lived, a vivid and interesting life, but just because it was vivid - does that mean it was worth it? Does that mean it meant something?

_You know it does. You know it's more than that._

Luke drinks black coffee, but sometimes he adds flavor - caramel, toffee nut, chocolate. No cream - just a shot of something interesting, to keep his attention. Dad used to drink it like that, and so did Steve, before he stopped drinking coffee altogether because of his blood pressure. One of his earliest, fuzziest memories is Mom and Dad standing at the kitchen counter, laughing about something. Dad's squeezing an almost-empty bottle of Hershey's syrup into his coffee mug, and Mom is laughing at him, poking his shoulder through her shawl. 

Does your history mean more than your present? Luke always gets up after a few minutes, checking his watch, squinting his eyes against the morning sun. If someone were watching him, they'd think he'd given up waiting on his early morning coffee date. Maybe they'd feel sorry for him, being stood up, but then again - who makes a date this early in the morning? Probably it was a work meeting, and in that case, it's probably not that bad. 

One, two, three, four. Luke goes to work, and goes home again. Theo calls, then Steve. They do their best to check in. Shirl will call again one day, Luke's sure of it. They're all just...trying. 

One day soon, his leg will get bad enough that he'll have to stop walking. He'll have to get a car or something. But Luke's already resigned to it. He's been resigned to it for a long, long time. 

_Five, six, seven: Allie, Eleanore and Jayden. Doesn't that work out nicely?_

Luke throws out his coffee, and doesn't look over his shoulder. He knows what he'll see, and it's just not worth it.


End file.
